Sunday Masquerade
by lyrically
Summary: It's only sex, but their emotional bond is stronger than that. [Draco, Hermione -- mild ref. to HHr.]


> > > > **sunday masquerade.**  
by vexia
>>>> 
>>>> **i. je suis solitaire**  
  
Monday.  
  
It always ends like this.  
  
Before the sun rises, she sits up and stares at the wall ahead. The silver glow of the moonlight is upon her, bathing her in fading radiance. She never knows he is awake, watching her. He never thinks of her in a fairy tale limelight, for it would be sugar-coating the world he has created for himself. But he does think she looks beautiful in nothing but her own skin, even if she refuses to acknowledge it.  
  
He watches her looking at the wall, knowing that, despite this give-and-take, there is regret and guilt in her eyes -- her heart.  
  
And he really couldn't care.  
  
It's only sex.  
  
_ii. je suis faible_  
  
Tuesday.  
  
Everyone is prattling away in the Great Hall while she stares ahead, wondering if this is another day that her presence is required.  
  
He is speaking to Parkinson, regaling her of his summer of grandeur at the _French Riviera_ (and he makes sure to emphasize this), describing the beauty of the sunset-streaked waters and how it would be _just lovely_ if she could accompany on his next vacation to France.  
  
She really isn't surprised at her response: a squeal, a gasp, and an obvious restrain on herself to keep from embracing him confirms her answer. She shakes her head, knowing quite well that Malfoy has never stepped foot in _France_ nor does he have any vacation plans to in the future.  
  
He is just a man of _gloire méprise_, trying to attract his audience with false stories to make himself a king in the eyes of others.  
  
Just as she's ready to respond to some inane question that Ron's asked, he turns around and looks at her with a nod to the rosewood doors. She interrupts her friends' conversation to excuse herself from the table. _I'm just going to the library_, she says. And everyone believes her.  
  
_That's our Hermione_, students chuckle.  
  
No one sees the flash of blonde behind her.  
  
_ii.i. et je suis puissant_  
  
He holds her against him, her face between his hands, as he takes her in for a bruising kiss. He licks the outline of her lips, stroking the fire as it was, and she opens her mouth for him. For one fleeting moment, he isn't sure of his surroundings. Just her.  
  
And now her hands are moving to untuck his shirt. And his hands are unbuttoning hers. And they're just frantic, trying to find some release. He shoves her hard against the wall (and she's fairly certain that there'll be a bruise there by morning) and bunches her skirt at her waist, knowing she's wet and ready for him -- always has been in this state. Her fingers are grasping at his shoulders, and she's biting down on her lip to keep from begging (or making noise -- she isn't sure).  
  
He smiles a humourless smile, fingers dipping below her waist and parting her. He slips his finger inside of her and pulls and pushes, gauging her reactions, feeling her inner muscles clench around it.  
  
_Beg, Mudblood. Beg._  
  
And she begs. Because it's torture.  
  
Before she knows it, he's plunging into her, and she doesn't know which way is up or down.  
  
He really isn't sure, either.  
  
_iii. mais personne ne sait_  
  
Wednesday.  
  
He feels her get out of his bed, but he doesn't open his eyes to watch. This time around, he wants to sleep in, moreso than most days she's slept with him. He feels satiated, somehow.  
  
The space beside him sinks beneath a delicate weight _(why aren't you leaving?)_, and he can feel her fingers pushing strands of his hair away from his face. His face contorts into some vague expression, something resembling pain and confusion, but she doesn't see because it's too dark. He turns on his other side, anyway.  
  
Just in case.  
  
_I don't know how much longer I can take this, Malfoy.  
  
One more day, I think._  
  
And he hears the door shut behind her.  
  
He is very aware of the draft in his room.  
  
_iv. je veux sentir_  
  
Thursday.  
  
A Quidditch game is about to commence, and he waits for her in the courtyard.  
  
Just for luck, he convinces himself.  
  
Although he really doesn't know why he needs luck from the Mudblood.  
  
He scowls, unaware of the shadow creeping up behind him. He is unaware of the hand that shyly slips itself in his much bigger one -- unaware of the gentle squeeze of his hand -- unaware of the kiss that is placed on his knuckles.  
  
_Good luck, Malfoy._  
  
And he snaps his head up, as if he were shocked. There was nothing there -- just the annoying sound of the bloody birds chirping. But his left hand is tingling; he doesn't know why.  
  
He brings it up to his face, and he can smell Mandarin oranges and sweets.  
  
She was just here seconds ago.  
  
And he didn't even know it.  
  
It's hours later until the game is over. He's standing proudly amidst his Slytherin peers, basking in their compliments, telling them an exaggerated tale of how he caught that Snitch.  
  
_(With his left hand.)_ He makes sure that his left hand is noted as godly. They don't know why, but he has always been right, has always been acknowledged as powerful and king-like, so they do not feel like questioning him.  
  
While they speak, he looks over their heads in search of familiar bushy, brown hair. He sees her, but she isn't alone. He isn't focused on his peers' words anymore, only aware of the scene that is taking place not more than seven feet away. She looks at him with a sad smile on her face, reassuring _Potter_ that _you'll catch it next time_. He's sure he looks ready to kill when she places an affectionate kiss on the edge of _Potter's_ lips. And stupid, bloody _Potter_ catches her mouth, one hand lifting her chin and stroking it, his other firmly grasped on the broom beside him.  
  
She's blushing when he pulls away. Potter presses his lips to her forehead and mutters something to her and she nods. And he leaves.  
  
She isn't aware that she's been holding her breath and as soon as she's ready to let it all out, she sees Malfoy staring at her. Looking absolutely murderous.  
  
And she just shakes her head in disappointment.  
  
_Malfoys_ just didn't understand anything.  
  
_v. mais vous m'avez oubli_  
  
Friday.  
  
She has a difficult time getting out of bed. He had been harsh the previous night, grazing his teeth along her sensitive skin, pulling her hair, paying no heed to her pleas to stop. He had been lost in his lust and anger, taking it out on her. Especially because she was _slagging away at bloody Potter_. And she let him take advantage of her.  
  
She's still hurting.  
  
She's about to sit up when an arm curls around her chest and pulls her down.  
  
Warmth.  
  
_Stay with me tonight._  
  
And she shakes her head, forcing herself up despite his grasp.  
  
_'Only sex', remember?_  
  
He frowns because he knows she's right. _(Has she ever been wrong?)_  
  
Yes. Tonight, she is wrong.  
  
And she doesn't even realise it.  
  
_vi. brûler ce masque_  
  
Saturday.  
  
He's watching the moon outside, as it glares brightly in his eyes. He doesn't squint; he's used to the bright light. Every night she slips out of his room, he stares at the night sky. Because the stars and moon don't leave him until he falls asleep.  
  
He feels her kiss his shoulder and whisper _goodbye_.  
  
He feels her pull the blankets over him, even though he knows that _she knows_ that he hates being fully covered when he sleeps.  
  
But it's okay because he's feeling cold tonight.  
  
And she's gone.  
  
_vii. pour j'ai aucun_  
  
Sunday.  
  
She's made it a point to visit him tonight. She plans to tell him that their deal is done, that he should find another girl who's willing to be there for him for a week.  
  
Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the door.  
  
She isn't sure what to make of the scene that's unfolded before her.  
  
There's strewn glass _(and small blood spatters)_ on the floor. The vase of roses that used to be on his mahogany desk is broken on the floor, and the flowers have been stepped on. His bed is unmade or he's made a mess of it -- she isn't sure what took place before she arrived. And she sees him sitting on his bed, staring at the same wall she stares at every morning before she hurries back to her room.  
  
There is silence, but she wishes that he would take her because this silence is uncomfortable. She'd rather hear their voices echoing in his room than nothing.  
  
But she needn't worry because he speaks, albeit soft and forced and choked.  
  
_Stay with me tonight?_  
  
A promise broken, she crawls into the space next to him and cuddles up along his side. She is very sure their deal is over. And she's also sure that these visits won't stop.  
  
Because every Sunday, he lets go. 
>>>> 
>>>> **l e f i n**  
© vexia, 22 june 2004
>>>> 
>>>> * * *
>>>> 
>>>> This was fun. Wrote it in a record thirty minutes. I deserve cookies for this. Kidding, of course.  
  
(No, _seriously_.)


End file.
